Old World Blues
by WestRose
Summary: The 141 wasn't prepared for their new arrival. He was rude, egotistical, disrespectful, and bothersome. MacTavish hated him. Ghost thought he was a traitor. And, Roach vowed to have him skinned alive one day. Little did they know that he would be the only one to defend their lives when no one else would. Imagine that.
1. The Triad

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, this is my first story for the Call of Duty franchise! I strongly welcome criticism and/or generous feedback. This story takes place within the time frame of Modern Warfare 2, however, in order for my plot to work, some events involving character deaths have been ignored. All in all, I genuinely hope you enjoy the first installment of 'Old World Blues'.**

**WARNING:** **Includes explicit language. Content may vary with each chapter.**

* * *

**[PROLOGUE]**

**5:30 pm - March 29  
Ritzang Island  
**"This is bullshit, man. How did we get caught in the middle of this fucked up mess?"

The young sergeant was met with an agitated stare. That was his cue to shut the hell up. With an unnecessary long sigh, Roach tugged at the drawstring of his sweatshirt, sliding the thread between his fingers.

"We've survived worse, nubby," the Englishman said with a grin. "Haven't we?"

Roach was a little less reluctant to share his humorous sentiment. "But... this feels different..."

Groaning, Scarecrow relaxed his head against the tiled wall behind them. With a sigh, the sniper contemplated on whether he should humor the little runt by asking him to elaborate. There was no doubt that, _that_ was what he wanted, and the little shit knew that it would eat him alive if he didn't ask eventually. Rolling his eyes in the most dramatically noticeable way possible, Scarecrow gave in.

"You are a thorn in my side, ya know that? Even in the worst of times, you HAVE to be a pain the arse."

"And that's why your mother loves me," Roach retaliated, sticking his tongue out, "moron."

"Dickhead..." Scarecrow wasn't surprised that they were at it again - taking part in yet _another _meaningless Insult Fest.

"Knob jockey!"

"Arse sniffer."

Roach thought for a moment before shouting in a British accent, "Nancy!"

"You are such an immature wanka, ya know that, mate?"

"Dude, we've been here for days. I have an entire list of names I've been _dying_ to call you," Roach huffed.

"What was your next one?" the Ammunition Specialist challenged.

"Flaming dildo," Roach stated proudly. Scarecrow chuckled, but their laughs were drowned out by silence. "Are you gonna ask already?" The American added quietly.

Scarecrow had a reputation. To anyone outside of the Task Force he was outspoken, resentful, greedy, and belligerent. He never spoke unless spoken to, and he was notorious for having skin tougher than steel. No one could break the barrier he'd built. He had no friends. Among other things, he was certainly _not _a liar. However, for the past two years, he had been lying to himself - albeit unconsciously. His mind was unaware of it, but his heart demanded that he did in fact have _one _friend. It was the little bug sitting beside him.

"Fine," Scarecrow forcibly yawned to hide his smile, "Different how?"

Suddenly, Roach was surrounded by a new atmosphere. Scarecrow could practically smell his fear as it radiated off of his American friend.

"I don't know," Roach rubbed his callused fingers together, "I've just got a bad feeling about it this time..."

**3:22 am - April 4**  
**Ritznog Island **  
What had begun as a standardized mission was now launched into a vortex of extraordinary chaos.

Soap's eyes repeatedly revolved into the back of his head, revealing an habitual beam of light, coming and fleeting with incredible speed. the captain's head hung indolently from his shoulders; his gaze directed towards the ground for mere seconds before he regained his composer. His senses, though dulled from his previous state, peaked with an undeniable concern. Between the pulsating light overhead and the discomfort in both of his arms, the captain's vision remained blurry, and his mind unresponsive to his current, yet unknown whereabouts. After several weak and unsuccessful attempts to lift his head and observe where he was being taken, Soap withheld, deciding that it was too late to make a difference anyway.

Two men, bulking with a bountiful heap of equipment, hauled Soap's limp body down an unwelcoming hallway; its walls furrowed with filth and tainted with blood. Though Soap could not identify the color of the dried substance he couldn't deny the foul stench of a corroded, metallic liquid. His wrists were fastened behind his back, secured with iron shackles; its slick surface nipping at his tender flesh and penetrating the derma just enough to draw a tickle or two of blood.

He had been stripped of all his military gear, as well as his Kevlar and uniform; consisting of a shirt, grey pants, and army regulation boots. Oddly enough, his assailants had granted him the usage of his skivvies and socks.

Without the energy to defend himself, Soap, still dozing in and out of consciousness, allowed himself to be dragged across a bitter, grime-ridden tile floor. Already, the captain could feel his knees rubbing raw; blisters were beginning to bulge from beneath the lacerated skin. With what seemed like an eternity, Soap's body was finally discarded into a cell block, barricaded with adamant rods. After impact, Soap's initial reaction was to choke back a cough, having had the wind knocked out of him.

For just a moment, he lay motionless, appreciating the brief serenity of his situation. - It was quiet, which allowed him to recap on what had happened to him and his team.

"Captain?"

_That voice._ Instantly, Soap placed his palms out in front of him to push his sore body up and away from the damp pavement. Squinting, the commanding officer peered through the flickering darkness in search of his cell companion. With hesitation, Soap stood, his right hand groping the equally damp wall for support; his other hand squeezing the side of his throbbing stomach, as it twitched with irritating pain.

Suddenly, from the darkness of the broad stockade, a pair of robust arms lunged forward to help the captain mid-step. It was like instinct - MacTavish _knew _who had come to his aid; and he was thankful. It was comforting to know that _something _had gotten through his thick skull.

"Roach!" the captain convulsed, heaving the lint out of his lungs. "What happened to you? Where are the others? Where's Scarecrow?"

Suddenly, the captain found himself panting against the wall, clutching his side and wincing in a sharp wave of hindering pain. He was in the same predicament he had been in before Roach had come along. Now, as if he had triggered an unpleasant recollection, Roach had abandoned his commanding officer to flee against the prison bars; quivering like a child - as if the Boogeyman were hiding inside his closet. The captain watched as the Sergeant pulled at his hair with one hand and clawed at his sand-colored Kevlar as if it were strangling him. Soap stumbled towards his comrade, kneeling beside him.

"Come on, mate. Pull yourself together. You're a soldier for crying out loud!"

"You weren't here! You didn't see what they did to him!" Roach bawled, "You didn't see the way he was-!"

Just down the corridor, the entry shrilled as its hinges grated against metal. The door was in such an angle that even when Soap pressed his head against the iron bars, he still could not hold sight of who was entering the detention level. His frustration flaked away when the sound of heavy boots, similar to those who had escorted him here in the first place, neared their cell; lugging a body closely behind.

The hefty man tossed the body inside the cell just opposite of their own. Soap studied the body beneath the red-glare of the flickering lights, but couldn't peg its identity. Roach had unknowingly nudged Soap's arm as he turned around to observe the body for himself.

"Oh my god... What did they do to you, man? What did they do to you?!" Roach deliriously shouted from the top of his lungs.

Before the captain could protest against his outburst, Roach went out of control. He stood at the bars, gripping two in his hands and shaking furiously at his containment. As the metal rattled, Roach continued to shout to their unconscious teammate. All the while, Soap inched away. He would never openly admit it, but he was frightened; seeing the likes of his comrade's sanity all but drained; seeing a grown man lavish his humanity out of sheer horror; seeing one of his closest friends lose _himself_.

"Scarecrow! Get up! Dammit, Scarecrow, GET THE FUCK UP!" Roach pulled at the prison bars again, desperately wanting to escape.

That was the joke. That was the humor in all of this. In reality, a soldier _never _thought. He just _did. _No matter how high his status, or how skilled, or how old, there was something about doing the crazy. Or, doing the stupid. You see a man down, you ran after him. You don't feel your buddy's body beside you in the ditch? You assume the worst, and go find him. It was in their nature. Every single one of them.

Yanked from his thoughts, MacTavish noticed a slick shine on the sergeant's cheek.

He was crying.

It was a painful, silent cry; a cry that you couldn't hide; a cry that you could never explain; a cry that realized what had been lost before your mind could comprehend it, before your heart could grieve it, before your soul could let go.


	2. Precious Cargo

**Six Months Earlier - October 6  
****Hereford, England  
**"Suck my wally, ya daft bastard!"

MacMillan's voice echoed inside the training facility. For a brief moment, he had startled his subordinates; seeing that MacMillan was blatantly shouting to an unknown character in a particularly lonely-looking corner.

"You tell 'im to grow a pair then call me before deciding things he shouldn't."

"Look's like the old man finally snapped," Price chuckled, nudging his friend, "I see the Director got himself an ear-piece for his mobile."

Between discussions, Roach emerged from the obstacle course, panting with his back hunched and arms pressed against his knees. He took a deep breath before regaining his composure, only this time with his chest elevated a little higher than before. Having completed the course eleven times, he was quite confident that _this_ time he had made a record far more impressive than the rest of the Task Force members. Overwhelmed with heat, he quickly removed the sand colored balaclava, momentarily tossing it to the side. Shortly after, he unstrapped his goggles as well. His helmet was the last to go, revealing an awkward, sweaty head of hair; at least one inch longer than regulation.

"You're gettin' slower an' slower, mate," Soap smirked, unintentionally ignoring Price's last comment. "Maybe you should take a break."

"The hell are you talking about? I ran the course in twenty seconds!" the American sergeant defended.

"Oh, give me a break," Ghost scoffed, crossing his arms at the younger man to support his captain, "The Queen of England could probably run it faster than you. God save her."

"God save the Queen," Soap quickly repeated. Suddenly, a cacophony of 'God save the Queens' erupted through the massive hanger bay. Like dominoes, one faithful British chum mimicked the other.

"God save the Queen!" Price said with a puff of smoke wafting from his mouth; having finally added in his two cents to their benedictions.

"Yay... let's save the Queen, or however the hell it goes..." Roach murmured, trudging off to retrieve his nap-sack in high hopes of finding what was left of the booze he had smuggled on base; hidden inside the contents of an old water bottle.

"Oi, what's that boyo?" The sergeant choked on his beverage, quickly wiping away the dripping liquid from the crease of his mouth.

Offering a cheeky smile, Roach shrugged. "Sprite."

"Sprite my arse."

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Roach fumbled his water bottle as Scarecrow, one of Archer's minions, ambushed him from behind; snatching the bottle of questionable fluid. The underdog sniper had reluctantly overheard their conversation of questionable beverages. Mumbling a string of curse words, Roach cringed when Scarecrow's lips left the mouth of the bottle. He released it with a solid smack. For a few agonizing moments, the young American watched as his expression turned from painfully odd to surprisingly chilled.

"Well?" As soon as Roach opened his mouth he knew he was going to regret it.

"That's some funny tasting Sprite ya got there."

Relieved, Roach sighed, smiling as Scarecrow returned his bottle of 'Sprite'. "Might have been a little flat. See? I told you."

Though doubt enveloped the master sniper's face, Archer reluctantly shrugged. "So you did. Sorry I said otherwise."

"No kidding," Scarecrow walked next to Archer, reclining against a stack of crates. "If that's how your sodas taste back in The States, I think I'll move to America next chance I get."

Roach smirked. "If you liked the Sprite, you should try the Sierra Mist."

Scarecrow winked at the sergeant. Roach noticed his kind gesture, silently thanking his comrade while returning the bottle back inside his nap-sack where it shouldn't have left in the first place. The sniper was as smart as they came and dangerously loyal to a fault. He knew that his American friend had smuggled in a pint of Scotch. With contents like that, Scarecrow wasn't about to rat him out to the authorities. However, Roach had a feeling Scarecrow would insist on a gratitude payment later.

"Clever bastard," Roach whispered to himself.

Before long, the course was closed and the authorities observing its runners left the training vicinity to rejoin with their mates inside the mess hall. With little to nothing to do on base, meal time had become an annoyingly repetitive procedure. Captain Price was always the first to enter, though he never obliged to any food, claiming that the chow tasted like a blind concoction of plastic and cardboard. Without hesitation, he would mosey over to an oval, metal-fold table located in the far corner of the cafeteria. After taking a seat, propping his boots up on the table, he would light his fifth cigar of the day.

Captain MacTavish would enter next, usually on Price's heels. After exchanging a quick glance between the more experienced captain and the rest of the chaps behind him, he wasted no time to reserve a spot in line. Soap's lieutenant walked beside him. After years of service, Ghost had grown attached to the captain. Their friendship was all he had left. Besides, Ghost new his place in the chain of command, having never accepted his own string - having always borrowed the captain's tight-rope.

Roach was accompanied by Archer and Scarecrow, following their captain's lead toward the ever-growing grub line. After all was said and done, the soldiers quickly hauled their tray of sloppy food to the table where Price was neglectfully lighting his sixth cigar. Like every other meal, the men would reunite in their little corner of heaven that everyone else in the force referred to as, 'The Merry Men Suite'. Once, MacTavish caught wind of this nickname and swiftly alleged that it was a painfully misguided assumption. Pressing on that they were neither merry, and some weren't even men. The soldiers on base thought it was funny until they realized that the captain was _not _joking.

"Come on, mate," Soap chewed at a chunk of his mystery meat, "Your damn boots are practically on my plate."

Price nodded, removing his feet from the table. "They'd probably taste a hell of a lot better than whatever it is you're forkin' in."

"It's not that bad today, actually," Roach suggested, filling his spoon with a bite of mashed potatoes.

"What the bloody hell are you eatin' then, eh?" Ghost pushed his plate of slop in the opposite direction of himself.

"Hey, Roach, mind givin' me some of your taste buds? I'm starving!" Scarecrow asked, poking, what looked to be like, mushed carrots?

"Fuck no," Roach mumbled, "Hey! What the hell, man? No! Don't touch my face!"

"As much as I'd love to watch the lot of ya touch each other, I'd really like to eat m'food in peace," MacTavish sighed.

"Oi, lads, I've got some bad news, and I've got some relatively worse news."

MacMillan came around the table to stand behind Price. His cell phone was in hand as he eyed each member of their group. MacMillan, though unintentionally doing so, had always made some effort to break the ice; even when there was no need to. He brightened every horrific scene with his flamboyant personality. Among other things, he was also _extremely _deceptive. He was a threat on the battlefield despite his humorous attitude towards life. Surpassing the younger men he was responsible for, MacMillan was often labeled as the father-figure; the shelter midst a storm; the butt of a gun when in danger. If you fuck with one of them, there was no doubt that MacMillan would be the first to defend him. He was solid, swift, and soft; the _unofficially _perfect soldier.

"Whatever it is, I think it's safe to say that I can handle it," Scarecrow leaned back on the two back legs of his chair, relaxing his hands behind his head with a keen smile stitched across his face.

Suddenly, immediately after Scarecrow had responded to MacMillan's intrusion, Roach began to gasp. As if he had no control over his arms, he began to frantically slap Archer's shoulder, in the process making him spaz out in a mini heart attack. The sergeant grabbed his throat, clawing at its tender skin with his fingernails; eyes widening in complete and total horror. Panic consumed his expression as Scarecrow grabbed his arms in somewhat of a soothing manner. Soap was instantly by his side, having rushed from his plate of half-eaten grub to save his comrade. The captain clutched onto the back of Roach's Kevlar, placing a firm hand against his chest while the sergeant continued to panic. The others showed every sign of concern, and, without orders, Ghost dashed away to find a medic. Gary was the youngest of the bunch, thus their responsibility for him automatically increased when things went sour.

"Hang on, mate," Soap's tone was stern and controlling, "Medic's comin'."

"I'm... choking!" Roach gasped.

Scarecrow leaned across MacTavish to slap a hard hand against Roach's back. He dramatically coughed, but continued to panic- having a clogged airway.

"I'm... choking..."

"Yeah, we know, boyo!" MacMillan chimed, "Hang in there!"

"...on Scarecrow's..." Roach gasped, eyes directly planted on Crow's bewildered expression.

"...bravado..."

The entire table was silent; mostly in confusion, but some with an intense, boiling frustration. Roach was still sprawled out across Soap's knee and was yet to be released by his impervious grip. Roach's eyes cut to the left, his gaze now fixed on MacTavish. The captain's lips were parted in such a way that the word 'surprise' might-as-well have been slapped across his face. In a furious huff, the CO jerked away from the sergeant while the little bug cackled in a fit of laughter; silent, long heaves of bellowing laughter.

As Soap returned to his seat, he mumbled a slur of profanity, shoveling the rest of his food in at an alarming speed. The rest shrugged, his messed up sense of humor was always unexpected, but they rightly knew that this sort of thing happened... at least once a week, and to think _nothing_ of it. Most were still hunched with anger at the little runt for making them shit their pants. If they could agree on one thing it was that Gary Sanderson of Task Force 141 was a damn good actor.

As the sergeant's loud cackles faded into a giggling fit, Scarecrow remained standing, still stunned that the American had just pulled a stunt as stupid as that. Roach continued to laugh. He slapped his knee. He slapped the table. He even slapped the sniper's shoulder, but that was a tragic mistake. Scarecrow seized his hand and twisted the fire out of it, causing Roach to topple over in sudden, _real _pain and panic.

"Uncle... uncle!" Roach shouted. Scarecrow released his hand, slapping the bug across the face. The sergeant placed his raw hand on his cheek and glared at his _partner - _thought with gritted teeth.

"What was that f-?"

"Oh, fuck you, Sanderson! You know bloody well why!"

"...Well, _I_ thought it was funny," Roach said with an _as-a-matter-of-fact_ tone.

Scarecrow began to breathe heavily, his anger solidifying into steam. "What... the actual fuck... were you thinking?!"

Roached laughed, "I scared you so bad, dude. You should have seen your face!"

"Like 'ell you did, jackass!"

"Aw, so you do love me don't yo-"

"No!" the sniper interrupted, his index finger pointed directly into Roach's face. The little bug went cross-eyed in an oddly fashion. "No!"

"Yeah, but-"

"No! Shut up. No-n- go. Just go."

"C'mon, man!"

"No one wants you here right now, Gary," Scarecrow whined, staring up at the ceiling and ordaining him a straight path to the exit. "GO."

"Stupid... old people... idiots. Just... choking... no fun... nasty food," Roach mumbled as he left, head hanging low in submission and hands tucked away inside his pockets.

"Eh, he'll be alright." Yawning, Archer patted his stomach before carelessly leaving his empty plate on the table, and taking his leave.

"Really, I don't understand why all of you are so upset," Archer suggested, "I'd think you'd be used to it by now."

"One of these days he's gonna be in a serious problem, and we're going to sit by thinking that the bloody bloke is only kidding," Soap murmured, massaging his throbbing temples.

The others agreed with the captain, thoughtfully sipping away at the remnants of their beverages. Price was already working on his seventh cigar. Though the dedicated men, stomachs full and minds inactive, were effete with mild burnout, the night was still young with plenty of time to engage in their long and, mostly, hollow gossip.

"Where's Roach?" Doc approached the table, panting- having had run from the other side of base along with Ghost.

The table was silent for a moment, each glancing at one another before furrowing their eyebrows. The medic waited for any one response, flashing a dumbfounded gleam from one soldier to the next_ equally_ silenced one. Ghost stood there with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He was the first to realize; his head beginning to shake in disbelief.

"Do I even want to know?" He pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation. Simultaneously, the others waved away his question, tiredly shaking their heads.

Doc groaned, grabbing a handful of his own hair. Slowly, _very _slowly, the medic turned away, leaving in the direction he so hastily came from. With a malicious, yet nervous snort, he whispered, "I'm gonna kill him. He's gonna get it. I'm gonna _have _to kill him. Yes, yes I am. I'm gonna be the one to _finally _do it."

_Oh, yes._ The night was still young.

Roach's shoe laces were flaunting about as he scraped his soles against the damp concrete. Apparently, it was supposed to be summer time, but the weather paraded otherwise. It had been raining for two weeks. The least of his worries were the residual portions of pollen left caked along rooftops and car hoods. The bleak weather was beginning to give him horrible headaches though, and with his _occupation_, when the headaches came, they _never _left. With his mind elsewhere, Roach was surprised to find himself standing before the entrance of his shared farthing.

Retrieving one hand from its warm socket, the sergeant reached for the brass knob, where flesh touched metal. Opening the loose, low-budget door, he stepped through only to be greeted with a blast of cold air. His grim roommate never ceased to remind him that he'd sever his fingers if he ever so much as breathed on the thermostat. Thus, their room was and remained the temperature of a meat locker. His quarters were smaller than most, him having only one bunk mate rather than three to share with. It was a typical scene, where one side was neatly organized; a made bed with clean sheets, rucksacks and gear properly hung on their designated pegs, and folded clothes stacked together in a composed fashion atop the dresser.

Roach sighed as he approached his bunk. Unfortunately, his side of the room couldn't even begin to compare to the professionally organized side. His sheets were bundled up at the foot of his bed, while his pillow was no where in sight. Various articles of _dirty _clothing were scattered like bread crumbs around his night stand, leading to the bathroom. Scarecrow had once threatened to set all of his possessions on fire if he didn't take care of the mess, however Roach would respond with a middle finger and a snort to further display his call on _'bullshit'. _Well, today was no different. Like shedding his skin, the young sergeant began to strip his shirt, tossing it over his shoulder, and his pants were discarded over the fold of Scarecrow's neatly made cot. Roach took a double glance at that, but decided to shrug it off even though he was certain it would come back around to bite him in the ass.

"Thought you'd might do that."

Momentarily startled, Roach whirled around to see an all too familiar figure. _The winter of his discontent. _"Well, if it isn't my good buddy, Ian."

"Piss off." Those were the only words Scarecrow offered before slamming the door shut and storming past the rookie in a raging march to the bathroom.

"Fine, then," Roach shrugged, pretending to be offended.

"Oh, don't give me that, nubby!" Scarecrow's voice echoed, "It's only your third bloody week with the Task Force. Meaning that you haven't got the bloody balls to say _anything_!"

"Only three weeks? Wow! And we're already such good friends!" Roach smiled sarcastically.

"I'm warnin' you, bug. Piss. Off."

"What? Are you still angry about earlier? Come on, dude. Don't be immature about this."

"IMMATURE?" Scarecrow asked, rounding the corner to face the sergeant. "_I'm _being immature? Have you lost your mind?"

"Nope." Roach's lips slowly curved up into a smirk. "But I found your's beneath all my dirty shit in the corner."

Scarecrow lifted his arms, hands balled into fists of annoyance, hinted with rage. He stopped only inches away from the man's face, breathing heavily; almost as if he were fighting with every molecule in his body _not _to annihilate the younger officer. Closing his eyes, he calmed himself by smoothing out the rumples in his cardigan. Roach stood proudly, his stance unwavering to Scarecrow's idiotic tirade.

"You done?" the sergeant asked with raised eyebrows.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Scarecrow sighed, "The only reason- the ONLY reason I'm not going to break your fuckin' jaw is because I promised the captain I wouldn't. I don't understand why he protects you all the time."

"Maybe because I'm the only person on this entire base that can shoot worth shit!" Roach tried to walk past the sniper, but was zip-lined by the larger man's beefy arms.

"Oh, keep talkin', Sanderson. Let's see where that gets you one day..."

"Why are you even talking to me?"

Roach's words were sharp, his tone etched with bitterness and exhaustion. Cutting a glance at his 'partner', the sergeant couldn't help but snicker when Scarecrow sat on his own bed after tossing aside Roach's dreggy shorts. Roach couldn't deny that they fought... a lot. For Heaven's sake, they fought _all_ the time. It was a never-ending cycle of incessant blabbering. If one gave the other an inch, they'd take a mile without question. It was truly sad, but they had come to realize an underlying message in each insult; in each taunt; in each fist. But, in every end, they would never recall any regrets. It was like talking in their own language. A language that left them bloodied, bruised... and _smiling_.

After a long sentiment of silence, Scarecrow yawned and quietly added, "Cap'n's got a mission for you."

"Yeah?" Roach acknowledged, peering at his image in the bathroom mirror.

"Sure," Scarecrow confirmed, "You leave with him in two days..."

Roach's reply was delayed.

"Hey, Gary?"

"... yeah, Ian?" Roach said with a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Come back in one piece, ya? Otherwise I'll have to bunk with some other asshole." Scarecrow had been reclining against the headboard of his bunk, arms relaxing behind his head and eyes closed. Briefly, he looked at the sergeant through one eye and snickered. Roach shook his head with a grin, exiting the bathroom and heading towards his own bunk.

"I can't make any promises," Roach teased, clearing his throat before admitting, "But I'll do my best to come back with all my limbs intact."

"Good lad."

Roach's eyelids began to droop as he lazily collapsed against his bed, his stomach bouncing against the hard springs. Shoving the acrid clothes off to the side, he yawned, his jaw aching with a soft pop. Finally, he let his head fall against his arms while his outstretched body lay completely vulnerable to the bitter air. With just a few deep breaths, as his muscles began to feel at ease, the young sergeant felt himself lodge victim to an immersed, immovable sleep. _Why aren't I able to do this every night? What makes this night different from any other?_

**2:14 am - October 7  
Landing Bay, South Sector  
**The helicopter was right on time, and not a minute too soon.  
Its cargo? A man.  
Military experience? Plenty.  
Name? Classified.  
Criminal record? A pardoned one.  
Was he human? Yes.  
Did he act human? Not by any means.


End file.
